


Her Father's Daughter

by Altenprano



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst With A Bittersweet Ending, Beau is not having a good time, Beau's father is mentioned, Caleb calls beau out on her bullshit, and beau is generally distressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: When a job for the Gentleman takes the Mighty Nein into the midst of the who's who of the Dwendalian Empire, Beau finds herself back in a world she is painfully familiar with, a world of excess and manners that must be observed, or else all will fall apart. As the night wears on, Beau realizes that she may be more her father's daughter than she would like to think.





	1. Chapter 1

Dazzling light from crystal chandeliers fills the main ballroom as the upper class of the Dwendalian Empire dances below, a perfectly choreographed forest of silk gowns and suits, with the occasional military dress uniform here and there. A quartet of musicians sits in one corner, playing a minuet that is by some Zemnian composer. Footmen make their way through the partygoers who are not dancing, offering trays laden with champagne to the resting lords and ladies, lingering in anticipation of any further needs they might attend to. Above the minuet, and in the corners of the room far from the musicians, the quiet buzz of conversation is barely audible. It is the sound of young ladies, new to society, in their pale pink and cream gowns, flirting with prospective suitors, or old men exchanging news and uninformed opinions on the war with Xhorhas, complaining that it will affect this and that import or such and such trade route that is crucial to their family business (as if they’ve ever worked a day in their life, as if they know what it is to sweat and bleed for something). A long table occupies one side, and seems to burst with delicate hors d’oeuvres: smoked salmon from Icehaven with soft cheese on delicate crackers, caviar that costs more than any common citizen of the Empire will see in their lifetime, something with precious truffles adorning the top, neat little pies that are perhaps pirogs of some variety (only eating them will tell for certain), and other delicacies that are difficult to discern without sampling them or seeing them up close.

Beau hates it.

She hates all of it.

The crystal, the lavish spread of food, the heiresses gossiping and trying to woo the son of whomever—she hates it. She hates the old men in their suits and uniforms, talking about business the way she remembers her father talking about business at the dinner table when she was told _sit still and don’t move in your seat so and, for the love of the Dawnfather, keep your mouth shut_. She hates how they only care for money and standing, and how these parties are used to vie for favor with those in the upper echelons. This is everything she dreaded growing up, the decadence she sees laid before her, which extends even to the food, the truffle and the caviar.

She hates the dress she is wearing—the fact it is the same cobalt blue as her usual robes does not make it better, and perhaps makes it worse. It’s too tight for her liking, and the neckline is low enough that she felt the stares of several men drift there as she walks by, stares she cannot respond to with bared teeth and a harsh reproach, and the stitching on the sleeves itches. She hates having to watch her steps _do not take long strides, Beauregard, it isn’t ladylike_ and hates the rigid posture she must hold in order to blend in with the other women. Her hair is down, the familiar blue cloth that holds it up folded alongside her robes back in the inn, and she hates the way it brushes against the back of her neck, hates the bounce of the small curls that Jester managed to put in it, even if they do help her blend in more.

She makes her way through the ballroom, keeping a close eye on the rest of the Mighty Nein as she lingers on the periphery. They do not look too uncomfortable in their own costumes (except Jester, who is fidgeting with the sleeve of her pink and cream dress, which makes her look like an attempt at an elegant confection…and maybe Caleb, who is standing stock-still in his uniform, which—frighteningly enough—suits him very well), but Beau is going to keep an eye on them. They do not belong here—she belongs only slightly more, having been born and an attempt made at raising her to one day wear the same pale pink and cream as the heiresses and find a way to help her father climb the social ladder of the Empire—and taking on this job for the Gentleman is, in hindsight, a bad idea, but they need the money, and it is either this or another trip to Labenda Swamp.

She does a quick count, making sure everyone is there and accounted for, and checking that they are on good behavior.

Fjord is talking with a group of older men, telling tales, no doubt, of his travels at sea. She knows he is pretending to be a foreign captain, from Tal’dorei, if she judges the accent correctly. The suit he wears is the only thing they could find in his size when they plundered the secondhand dress shop, but with the sea-green cravat of silk that Molly obtained from gods-know-where, it is the right amount of striking so that no one should suspect him of not belonging. As he speaks, Beau can see his eyes dart up to meet hers, concern furrowing his brow once, for a moment, and then it is gone, and he is talking with the men once more, discussing something about shipping conditions and tariffs. If he weren’t a half orc, perhaps he would fit in with these people.

In a corner close to the musicians, Caleb stands at attention, doing his best, Beau is sure, to act the part of a soldier, without drifting too far back into his past. There is a furrow to his brow, an twitch in his fingers that makes her wonder what he is thinking, if he is upset with her for saying Frumpkin would not be welcome at the party, or if that is simply his way. She watches a small gaggle of young women crowd him, and his cheeks flush red as he answers their questions and attempts to make an exit as quickly as possible, perhaps seeking the drawing room and the promise of books (though Beau doubts they’ll be interesting).

Molly is…where is Molly?

Beau glances around.

Usually the tiefling is hard to miss, but in a room full of ridiculously dressed men and women, Beau admits she’s lost track of the giant pain in the ass named Mollymauk.

After a few moments, during which she tries not to be too obvious _do not stare, it’s rude to stare, Beauregard, make eye contact when you are speaking, and never outside of that_ , she finds Mollymauk, who is trading grandiose tales with a group of young men with silk cravats and sashes. The tiefling himself wears a brocade coat with wide sleeves and flowers worked into the design—elaborate and noisy, yes, but a far cry from his sweeping coat with its gods and arcane symbols. His horn jewelry remains, almost a chandelier in itself, and his tattoos seem to fit in with the colors and patterns around him. His red eyes dart to meet hers as she passes by, finishing her fourth lap of the room since arriving, and she gives him a curt nod, _chin up, shoulders squared, do not slouch Beauregard, you are a lady, not some stupid serving girl—act like it_.

She spies Jester fidgeting with her dress ( _sit still and it won’t itch so!),_ and catches a glimmer of mischief in the cleric’s eyes as an elven man passes in front of her. A blink, and the elven man’s step falters as he almost trips. Beau does not have time to catch Jester with a glare, and she is too far away to scold her for such behavior—they have an agreement of no mischief until this is done, and Beau suspects that Jester might have broken that. Instead, she adjusts the tilt of her head, the squint of her eyes and, as best she can, mimics her father’s stern, reproachful look that always managed to say so little, and yet, so much, before she takes up position in the corner of the room, where she can see everything, and yet, seem engaged in the party.

Nott and Yasha are nowhere too be seen.

Even with a Disguise Self spell, it is too much of a risk to let Nott loose in this room. The pearls and diamonds that glimmer at the throats of the women, the glint of gold heirloom pocket watches on chains that lead into the coat pockets of the men—it is too tempting to the goblin. The rings, too, would be at risk, and there is no one here shorter than the Baron of Trostenwald, a stout human with a pinched, almost weasel-liked face who is scarcely five feet tall, so the disguise of a gnome or halfling would not grant her anymore favor than her true image.

Yasha is absent as well, too striking in appearance to be present, her features too noticeably Xhorhasian in a time of war for her to be safe. Beau wishes she were there, to stand by her and to be some sort of stable force, but that is not to be. All of Dwendalian society—the who’s who, anyway—is there tonight, and Beau worries that number might include Trent, though she has yet to spy the bastard ( _language, Beauregard, language_ ). She is already risking Caleb in that regard, but she trusts the wizard to take care of himself, to watch his mouth and not engage. He is unassuming enough, whereas Yasha is less so, and so, Yasha agreed to wait.

Beau takes a breath.

Yasha and Nott might not be there, but she knows that while the rest of the Nein keep watch, the goblin and Xhorhasian are going to be hard at work, stealing the documents the Gentleman asked for. So long as everyone plays their part, there will be no trouble, and the Nein will get their two thousand gold.

As much as she hates all of this, she thinks for a moment that it will be worth the two thousand gold. She could not care less, what those documents contained. The Nein are strapped for cash, between buying diamonds and Caleb buying fancy paper and ink for his spells, and so Beau is content to just do, and not think, though standing around in a dress, pretending to be the daughter of a noble (or at least well-off) house, that requires more thinking than she cares for.

There is so much to remember, so many rules that Beau never cared for, that she now has to call to mind in order to get through this situation. Stand up straight, do not stare, do not stuff your face with hors d’oeuvres (not that she would anyway, as she cares little for caviar—it was decadent and cruel—though the prospect of pirogs is tempting, and she would be lying if she said it didn’t make her mouth water in the slightest), and _for the love of the Dawnfather, Beauregard, do not speak unless spoken to_. She remembers lessons in her early years on all these things, the governess she scared away by presenting a toad at luncheon, and how her father punished her for it.

Her father would be proud now, she supposes, letting her mind wander in that direction for a brief moment. He would be proud that she is not questioning a direction for once in her life, that she is mingling with what he would count as “polite company,” or, on days when he is especially cross “her own sort.” He would be proud that she is wearing a dress without voicing a complaint ( _a lady never complains. Even if the dress is two sizes too small, she does not complain_ , he had told her once), and she is standing straight, holding her chin with some degree of pride, but not too much, because _too much pride in a woman is, after all, arrogance, and you are not arrogant, are you Beauregard_? He might not be proud to see the two tieflings and half orc she keeps company with on this night—though tonight they are not formally involved, they are all separate people, exchanging meaningful, but polite, glances and nods. He would be proud to see her keeping even the wild spirit of Jester under control, and her stomach coils at the thought, of _controlling_ , but at the same time, there is a warmness in her heart, to know that he would be proud of her.  

“And then, we told the bandits we had reeeeaaally bad syphilis,” she hears Jester say, and the tiefling is far away, about sixty feet, not far if Beau were to run (but she will not run, ladies do not run), but she hears her nonetheless. “It was really funny.”

Taking a breath to steady herself _mind your temper Beauregard, it is your worst quality, and no man wants a wife who is known for her temper_ , Beau makes her way across the room, closing the space between her and Jester with startling efficiency. She does not run—ladies do not run, but they walk with purpose, and there is deliberate purpose in her step as she approaches Jester.

“Please excuse us,” she says, addressing the young man Jester has been talking with, making eye contact with him as she speaks, the same way her father would with anyone she had “offended” as a child.

She takes Jester by the arm, half expecting the tiefling to resist (and the gods know that the cleric can easily overpower her, if she choses to fight back, which Beau prays she will not), and pulls her away, moving until they are in a secluded enough corner, where Beau can talk to Jester alone, away from the prying eyes of the other guests.

“What were you thinking?” she asks, her voice a sharp hiss between them. She still holds on to Jester, waiting for an explanation before she releases the cleric.

“I was telling him about when we met the bandits, and how Caleb told them we have really bad syphilis, to get them to go away.” She isn’t meeting Beau’s eyes as she speaks, her gaze resting on the monk’s shoulder or darting to where Caleb is slowly inching towards them now. “It’s a good story, and it’s funny.”

“Look at me when you speak,” she says, and for a moment, the voice isn’t hers, but her father’s, harsh, clipped, a silent “or else” trailing her words. She tightens her grip, not by much, but enough to convey her displeasure with Jester’s behavior.

They talked about this, before they got ready for the job, and Jester promised. No Traveller, no stories. She would speak when spoken to, conduct herself like a lady—Beau is sure Jester can do that, though her behavior in the ballroom suggests otherwise. It is so simple; Beau does not understand how Jester cannot follow the rules laid out before her.

Jester does as Beau says (much to Beau’s astonishment, as she half expects the younger girl to continue to avoid her gaze out of sheer defiance), and Beau sees a flash in her violet eyes, followed by…no, that’s not the case, Beau has to be imagining it.

“This is the worst party ever,” she says, and she gives a little stamp of her foot. “I’m not allowed to do anything, I can’t talk to the Traveller, and this dress itches, and you wouldn’t let Nott come, and…”

“You know why she couldn’t come,” Beau is quick to say, cutting her off even though _it’s rude to interrupt, Beauregard_. “We need this money, this job needs to go off without a hitch. It was a risk enough to bring you and Fjord and Molly here, and if you fuck this up for us, it’s all on you. Having Nott here would just make it worse.”

Jester wrinkles her nose, and Beau sees it again, the flash of hurt in her eyes, and this time, it lingers. “But I’m bored! This is no fun. Parties are supposed to be fun.”

“Not these kinds of parties.” Beau’s father is gone from her voice, but her tone remains the same. Clipped, firm, no room for protest from Jester. “We’re not here to have fun. We’re here to do a job, a job we can only get done if you behave yourself like we talked about beforehand. What were the rules we discussed?”

Jester rolls her eyes, just as Beau had often done when her father asked the same question. “No talking about the Traveller, no stories, only speak when spoken to and not for long, stand up straight, don’t fidget, and…and…”

“And act like a lady,” Beau finishes, letting out a small sigh. She releases her grip on Jester’s arm and smooths the ruffled neckline of the tiefling’s dress so that it falls evenly. She glances at the jeweled pins Jester found earlier and now wears tucked around her horns, a glittering bunch of cherry blossoms, and then at the clock across the ballroom (like everything else, it is elaborate to the point Beau considers it garish). They have a few more minutes until Nott and Yasha are finished, and then they can leave, gods willing.

Jester rubs where Beau held her, grimacing (the expression does not become her, Beau thinks). “And that.” Her voice is more subdued, and her gaze drifts to the floor—Beau does not correct her this time—and she hesitates a moment before moving briskly away from Beau, towards Fjord, leaving the monk standing in the corner of the ballroom.

Beau watches her go, notes the quickness with which she walks, how she almost bumps into a middle-aged half-elf with a mustache that looks as if a rat died on his upper lip, but a quick step to the side, and she avoids the collision. She takes a breath and forces herself to stand up straight, to lift her chin and angle it just so, to give the appearance that she is a woman of good breeding, the same as any other woman present.

The disguise is easier to wear than she would like, and she wonders what her father might say, if he saw her standing there. She shouldn’t care—she stopped caring long ago, why does she care now—but some small part of her does, some small part still wants that approval. She wants to her father say he is proud of what she has become, though she knows if he really knew, he would pace around, say how disappointed she makes him, to take something he has given her, a chance at life, and throw it away. He would call her reckless, ungrateful, and perhaps, depending on what he knew, he would denounce her altogether.

“Is everything alright?”

She is so focused on Jester, on watching the girl’s movements to make sure she listened, that she doesn’t notice Caleb approach. “What?” _Don’t speak so harshly, Beauregard, and do not use that tone with me._ She blinks, and gives her body a quiet shake, as if to shake off the boorish tone of her voice. She tries again, more collected this time. “Excuse me?”

“You pulled Jester aside. Is something the matter?”

Caleb speaks softly—he always does—and he stands soldier-straight. Beau is glad that at least _someone_ seems to be following her earlier instruction; even though she knows Caleb is the least likely of the four of them to act out, anything can happen, Beau finds herself worried that it will all come undone.

She shakes her head. “Everything’s fine,” she says. She does not need to involve him in this, does not need to draw attention to a flaw, and even if she did, such conversation did not have a place here. She turns the conversation towards business. “Any word from Nott yet?”

Caleb shakes his head, and then catches himself. “Are you sure? I saw you with Jester, and that was not nothing, Beauregard. Did something…”

“Everything’s fine,” she says, and then flinches. _Ladies do not interrupt, nor do they snap_ as she has just done. If her father were here, it would be a stern word and the promise of punishment later for what she has just done. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet, less harsh—her father would be proud. “Tell me when Nott has the papers, so we can leave.”

Caleb looks as if he has something to say—he always looks this way when she makes a snap judgment or says something without thinking (which is a lot of the time, except when she does consider her words more carefully than she has recently)—but, as usual, says nothing. He only nods, a solemn gesture, somehow made more severe by the uniform he wears.

After a moment’s hesitation, he holds out a hand and gives a small bow. “Would you care to dance?” he asks, his voice quiet, cautious, and Beau can almost hear the frantic heartbeat of a rabbit beneath his words, the underlying tremor that seems ever-present in his words.

She hesitates, her gaze darting towards Jester, who is standing beside Fjord, looking bored out of her mind and making no effort to hide it. Satisfied at least that the tiefling is behaving herself and not spreading any more stories about how the Mighty Nein defeated a group of bandits by pretending to have extreme syphilis, she turns her attention to Caleb and nods. Another moment passes and she realizes that perhaps she is supposed to place her hand in his, which she does.

Caleb leads her to the center of the ballroom and waits for her to settle into position before they begin to dance the slow waltz that the string quartet has begun to play. He is a good dancer—she remembers the night in Hupperdook, when he and Jester were waltzing and polka-ing, and dancing to whatever else was playing that night—and she feels a pang of guilt the first time she steps on his toes. A brief grimace flits across his face, but it is soon replaced with a faint grin—forgiveness.

They dance for a few minutes, until the second movement begins, and Beau is glad that Caleb releases her. She is not a good dancer—even after countless tutors as a child, she is not good at anything but halfling country dances, which her father has stated his clear disapproval of many times. She is too stiff, her muscles are too tightly coiled, her mind wanders around the ballroom and to the rooms beyond, praying to whatever god will give a fuck for Nott and Yasha to hurry up, she isn’t sure how much longer she can be here.

“Nott says she has the papers,” Caleb tells her, his voice low as they finish their dance and he bows before escorting her to the edge of the room.

“Let the others know,” she says, glancing about the room, making sure she has everyone in sight, and that everyone is still behaving. She feels it now, the tightly coiled spring in her chest, the tremor as it prepares to release.

She takes a breath to steady herself, though what she needs is a strong drink, something that she will have to stick around for if she wants it, and now that the job’s done, she just wants to move along, collect the Gentleman’s two thousand gold, and get going. The sooner they leave, the better—every second that passes, she can feel it waiting to come undone, and how little it will take for it to collapse, for them to be found out.

Caleb nods, and reaches into his pocket for the piece of copper wire. He raises his hand to his mouth, as if to cover a yawn, and turns away from the dance floor to hide the unnaturally long yawn as he sends a Message to the rest of the Nein.

Beau is already heading for the exit, shoulders back, each step purposeful. She does not sneak away, as she might have done in her younger years, but moves as if she must be somewhere important. She does not look over her shoulder to see if the rest of the Nein follow (she is not Cinderella fleeing the ball, for gods’ sake), but continues on, chin held high _but not too high, you mustn’t let them think you are haughty, Beauregard. You are humble and meek, but of good breeding—fucking act like it_.


	2. Chapter 2

She takes off the dress as soon as the door to her room is shut, tearing at the ribbons and hook-in-eye clasps that hold it together, trapping her in the brilliantly colored cocoon of satin and another fabric that is too brittle against her skin for her to care. Every second after the door shuts, Beau feels the dress tighten around her (or is it her?), and so she fights to get it off, before it can squeeze her any tighter.

After a few minutes (it feels like ages without Jester to help her, but Beau has not seen the blue tiefling since they returned to the inn, and she isn’t sure she wants to), Beau is free, and, pausing only for a moment to savor her freedom before she slips her robes on. The fabric is light and familiar around her body, and it is good to tie her hair up and away from her face, so it is not brushing against the nape of her neck.

With the door closed between her and the rest of the world, Beau feels the spring that is coiled inside of her—winding more and more tightly as the night goes on— snap.

She doesn’t even register what happens next, not until she feels a flare of pain in her hand and hears the creak of wood as she lashes out at the wall. She grits her teeth as every second of the party plays in her memory. She sees Jester’s eyes, wide as Beau snaps at her, her father’s voice replacing her own as she speaks. She can still hear the clink of glasses, and the airy laughter of the heiresses, and smell perspiration under the cloying sweetness of perfume, as if she is still in the ballroom.

She hits the wall again, deliberately this time. The blow is solid and calculated, just like she was taught.

She grimaces, and a quiet grunt of pain escapes her lips, and she’s panting (she should not be panting, not after two punches). Over the sound of her own heartbeat—why is it racing when she’s hardly exerted herself? —she thinks she hears the door to the room open.

She turns her face away from the door, and waits.

“May I come in?”

It’s Caleb. Good gods, what is he doing up here?

Beau takes a breath, steadies herself, tries to ignore the sound of her racing heart. She thrusts her chin up, hoping to cover the fact that she can feel things beginning to fall apart.

“Sure,” she says, forcing her voice to be steady. “Something up?”

The wizard shakes his head. “No, no,” he says, and he makes his way from the door to where Beau realizes she is kneeling on the ground. He gives a half-hearted gesture, an unspoken request to sit by her, to share space with her for a while.

She nods, but says nothing.

“You know,” he begins, then pauses, glances over his shoulder, then back at her. “For the longest time, after…after what happened, I was worried I might become like him, like Trent. I was worried I would—worried that there was something, there is something in me that is…something that is like him.”

Beau glances at Caleb, her dark blue eyes meeting his brighter ones. They are bright and yet…and yet there is a sadness to them that never seems to leave. “What’s your point?”

She doesn’t mean to be harsh, but she isn’t used to being seen like this, and so she hastily erects thorns and barbs around her, and she can hear it in her voice as she speaks. She is protecting herself, sheltering that quiet vulnerability she wishes she didn’t have.

“My point is, Beauregard—and I will not pry, but back there, at the party, perhaps”—and he pauses, searching for the right word—“perhaps you became someone you were not, when you were speaking with Jester.”

She hangs her head, her chest twisting at the reminder of what she’d done. She doesn’t speak for a while, wondering if she can allow herself to be vulnerable the way she doesn’t like to be. She curls her aching hands into fists in her lap, and takes a breath.

She lets out a nervous, stuttering laugh, the kind she uses to mask her hurt, like in Hupperdook, when she told Nott about her father.

“Did folks ever tell you growing up you were like your parents?” She feels strength in her voice—there is no wavering, and she is glad.

“I, uh, always used to be told that I took after my mother,” Caleb answers, and Beau (though she doesn’t look to see if this is true) can picture the furrow of his brow. “I had her gift, they would say, and some other features too. Most everyone knew I was Una’s son.”

“Yeah, but like, personality-wise? You know how sometimes people’ll say you’ve got your mother’s temper or something like that?”

“Did people say that about you? Do you take after your mother in that way?”

She bites her lip and shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, giving a quick glance sideways. “Never met my mother, at least, not that I can remember, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh.” There is a brief silence, the quiet rustle of Caleb fidgeting with the cuff of his coat sleeve. “I am sorry.”

She shrugs. “Shit happens, people die. I was young, so I don’t remember her that well.”

“What about your father? Do you take after him at all?”

“I fucking hope not,” she says, and again, the stuttering laugh bursts forth. It is the only thing keeping her from crying—she can feel the gentle nudging of tears at the corners of her eyes, hot and angry, like her first night at the Cobalt Reserve, but she does not cry.

She does not want to be like her father. Her father is an asshole who only seeks personal gain, a shit person who is willing to step on anyone and everyone if it means he ends up on top. He is a man who would put his work before his own fucking family, who never cared for his daughter, the last reminder he has of his wife.

“He didn’t love my mother, you know,” she says, letting the wall down, even if only slightly. “He married her to make an alliance between his family and hers, so he would inherit their business when her father died. I don’t…I don’t remember a lot about her, but I remember that.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. “It is what it is, I guess. He’s an asshole, but at least he didn’t bother to hide it, ya know?”

Caleb nods, and his hands fall still. “You know, you do not have to be like your parents, Beauregard—you are not like them, not at all,” he tells her, his eyes darting to meet hers. “What happened tonight, I think it is like with me and fire.”

She tilts her head to the side, confused by his words. “How?”

“Perhaps…Perhaps that was the wrong comparison to use, but you know what I mean, _ja_? You were in a situation that reminded you…I suppose it reminded you of your father, or something he’s said, and you reacted in the only way you knew how.”

Beau shakes her head. “It’s not my father’s fault, that I said those things to Jester,” she says, her fists tightening in her lap. “It’s my own fault. I was being a shitty person, thinking more about the job and the money. It almost makes me as bad as my father, but it isn’t his fault.”

“Beauregard…”

“I hate my father, don’t get me wrong, but when he had them take me away, when he had the…had the monks take me, I did promise myself one thing.”

“And what was that?”

She feels her fists unclench a little, but her posture remains stiff, the spring inside her winding steadily tighter and tighter. “That I wouldn’t become like him. Whatever he was, I didn’t want to be that. It wasn’t supposed to be hard, since he was a garbage person to begin with, but clearly I’ve gone and fucked that up too.”

“Oh don’t say that.” Caleb drops eye contact with her for a moment to fiddle with the wrappings around his hands, then meets her gaze once more. “You are a good person, Beauregard, one of the kindest people I know. You are coarse sometimes, yes, but you have a good heart, and I know the rest of the group—Jester especially—sees that in you.”

“I almost hit her.” The words come tumbling from her lips, and she feels something inside her crack a little, a fissure in her usual façade. “I almost fucking hit her.”

“But you did not.” He places a gentle hand on her shoulder. She can feel the caution behind the gesture, as if he expects her to turn at snap at him, like some kind of wild animal.

“But what if I did, Caleb?”

“I am sure she would have forgiven you,” he says, and he gives her shoulder a light squeeze, still cautious, still unsure. “She is downstairs now. Maybe you should talk with her, explain what happened. I am sure she will understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Beau says, and her posture loosens, her shoulders curve and for a moment she shelters herself, still very aware of Caleb’s hand on her shoulder. “I was a shit person to her, end of story. I put the mission and coin before you guys, and she doesn’t have to forgive me for that.”

“If it were Jester who had done something shitty to you, would you forgive her?” His lips are pressed in a serious line, brows furrowed. “And do not say you would, Beauregard, because I know even your tolerance for bullshit has limits.”

“Of course I’d forgive her. It’s Jester. I mean, I’d want to know why she did it first, but I’d still forgive her.” Beau’s eyes widen as she realizes where Caleb is going with this. “You want me to talk to her, don’t you?”

“It cannot hurt to try,” he says, then, “but take your time, that is always important.”

She nods. “Right, right.”

“You are a good egg, Beauregard, and I am proud to call you my friend—the others no doubt think the same.”

She grins a bit at this sentiment.

She knows coming from the wizard, those words mean something. Those words mean more than they might coming from Jester, who dispenses such compliments freely, or Molly, who is all flattery, with a few genuine sentiments, but they are hard to find.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she says, unsure of how else she is to reply, or if she is better of staying silent. She glances off to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Uh, but don’t go around saying I said that, yeah?”

Caleb chuckles, and the sound brings some lightness to Beau’s chest, easing the tightness from the coil around her heart. “I promise,” he says, and, hesitantly, he squeezes her shoulder again. “Everyone is downstairs celebrating, if you want to join us. I know Molly found some nice cherry brandy or something and is looking to celebrate.”

She wants to laugh. Mollymauk knows they don’t have that kind of money, and yet, he insists on celebrating. “I’ll be down,” she says. “I just…give me some time, alright?”

“Of course,” says the wizard, and with that, he stands, almost as silently as he hand come, and leaves.

As he crosses the room to the door, Beau swears she sees a flash of blue, but she blinks, and it is gone before Caleb even reaches the threshold.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this bit! There will be a Pt2, so be on the lookout for that, coming soon.
> 
> Special thanks to the Beauyasha Discord server for your support in my writing this. 
> 
> Thank you so much and please feel free to leave any comments/questions/critiques below!


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